


Death of her sun

by mysteryblo33om



Category: Original Work
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Poetic, Slice of Life, diane is posh, harriet is like an agent i think, iris is the best friend, kinda symbolic but also not, originally based off drarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:36:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteryblo33om/pseuds/mysteryblo33om
Summary: Fleeting moments of a couple, Diane and Harriet over time.
Relationships: Diane Rameau/Harriet Evans, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 1





	Death of her sun

_You’re the northern wind, sending shivers down my spine._

_You’re like fallen leaves in an autumn night._

“You never told me you could dance.”

  
Diane says this with a smile — it’s a ridiculous, goofy, wine drunk smile that Harriet’s just now realizing is her favourite. It’s the most open she ever seen the woman be before. The warm glow of the fireplace is splashed across her flushed face, which she partially attributes to the alcohol, and partially decides is the fault of her dancing partner.

  
“You never asked,” Harriet replies simply.

  
Diane shakes her head as Harriet pulls her closer. Her heart is thudding against her ribcage, and as desperately as she tries, she can’t hide the natural nerves and excitement that spring up from the contact. She shudders when Harriet runs a hand softly down her cheek and leans in. As far as first kisses go, it’s not half bad.

_You’re the lullaby, that’s singing me to sleep._  
_You are the other half, you’re like a missing piece._

  
Flashing, burning, handcuffs clanking, a psychotic laugh. There’s no one around. There’s a crash. There’s a scream.

  
Diane wakes with a shout, fighting for breath desperately. She’s aware that surrounding her legs are silky blue sheets, but she kicks free of them in terror. The only light in the bedroom comes from the pale glow of the streetlights through sheer curtains, and her eyes dart around for something to focus on, choking back a pathetic cry.

  
“Hey,” a voice comes from beside her, and there’s something warm about it that spreads through her veins. She lunges towards it, grappling in the blackness anxiously.

  
“Hey, you’re OK. It’s me.”

  
_Harriet._  
Somehow the thought forces a broken sob out of Diane. _It’s just_ _Harriet_.  
Harriet grabs hold of the blonde’s wrist, carefully sitting up and pulling herself as close as she’ll dare as Diane inhales deep, shaky breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Diane finally spits out.

  
“Shh, I love you,” Harriet says. She rubbing circles on the inside of Diane’s thin wrist, waiting for the thundering pulse to slow. When it finally begins to even out, she places a kiss in place of her thumb and wraps a sturdy arm around Diane’s shoulders.  
For the first time, Diane cries in front of her.

_You are all four seasons rolled into one._  
_You’re like the cold December snow in the warm July sun._

  
“You’ve got something on your nose,” Harriet’s giggling, leaning against the counter across from her girlfriend.

  
Diane swats at her face, wiping away the flour that had somehow made its way there in the process of baking a ridiculous batch of Christmas cookies.

  
She had never had a desire to cut out shapes of trees and stars and sleighs from shortbread before, but somehow Harriet always got her to rise to a challenge. Their bake-off had been mostly successful — Harriet had created a pan of perfect, golden-brown treats. Diane had created a mess.

  
Diane turns to the sink, basking in the winter sun as she scrubs away at a pan when she feels it: Harriet’s hand in her hair. More specifically, Harriet’s hand in her hair… _full of flour_.

  
Diane reaches up, mouth dropping open, and pulls a dusted white hand through the blond strands. She whirls around. “You did not just do what I think you did.”

  
Harriet’s laughing hysterically now, and while Diane is fuming, she can’t help the flutter in her chest because God damn it, Harriet’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. That doesn’t stop her from grabbing a handful of flour and aiming it directly at Harriet’s face, however.

_I’m the jet-black sky, that’s just before the rain._  
_Like the mighty current, pulling you under the waves._

  
Diane is angry. Her day has been awful, her week has been dreadful, everything has been rough.

  
She misses her mother, she wishes she were there just to tell her what to do. She knows she’s being hostile when Harriet comes home, she knows it’s not her fault. It isn’t long before they’re fighting, and she knows she’s being unreasonable. She can’t help it. It’s who she is. Then Harriet makes some grouchy comment about Diane ignoring her, and she snaps.

  
“For gods sakes, I’m just _thinking_! You should try it out sometime,” she says.

  
Harriet instantly goes on the defensive. “I’m trying to talk to you. You know, communicating? You should try that out sometime.”

  
“Christ, Harriet Evans, not everything is about you. I know people like to tell you that, but I’ve got news.”

  
“Oh, back off,” Harriet snaps, standing up abruptly. “Pardon me for wanting to say hello to my girlfriend who I’ve barely seen all week!”

  
Diane rolls her eyes at her. “I’ve been here, where were you? Oh, that’s right. Out for drinks with, who was it? Shelly?”

“That was one night!”

  
Diane leans back against the couch and huffs out an angry sigh. “Can you just… not? Right now?” she grumbles.

  
Harriet leaves the room without a word, and Diane’s usual guilt rushes through her. Her head is pounding, and her heart is aching.  
She finds Harriet in bed half an hour later and curls up with her, the whole room blue with the pale light of dusk, and her dark hair fanned out against the stark white of the pillowcase.

  
“I’ll make dinner,” Diane whispers against the warmth of her partner’s neck.

  
Harriet nods and turns her head so that their foreheads are pressed closely together. Diane kisses her softly, and Harriet smiles. “Apology accepted.”

_I’m the darkest hour, just before the dawn._  
_And I’m slowly sinking into the slough of despond._

  
12:03 AM.

  
She lived to see one last day. Three minutes, just past midnight.

  
Diane thinks that this is simultaneously uplifting and depressing — she isn’t sure which to focus on first.

  
Their mission had gone wrong, at least that’s what the Chief said, but she barely hears him. The poison had been slow, stopping organ after organ, and doctors rush around the bed. When Diane finally arrives, she is struggling for air. The antidote had become useless. Harriet’s lungs are collapsing.

  
_Somebody help her, please! Please help her! God damn it, save her!_

  
Diane screams the same words over and over until her voice is hoarse, and when Harriet’s heart begins to slow, she comes to the realization that there is nothing more they can do. Diane lets her forehead fall against Harriet’s cheek, and finds it wet. Harriet had been crying. Somehow that hurts more than anything else.

  
She swears she can feel the blackness take her.

_Like an old guitar, worn out and left behind._  
_I have stories still to tell, they’re of the healing kind._

  
The concrete step is cold beneath Diane, and she grips the edge so hard the stone leaves indents in her palms. Iris holds a hand against her back. The sun is coming up, all bright orange and pink and yellow, reflecting off the window panes of the city.

  
“Come on, love,” Iris says. Her voice is not warm, but it is comforting all the same, and with one brutal push Diane stands. For a moment she is not sure if her legs will even support her, but she takes one stumbling step upwards and finds her strength.

  
The house — their house — is looming above her.

  
“I don’t know if I can go inside,” Diane’s voice is weak.

  
Iris nods, following Diane’s gaze up to the home that towers over them. “You can.”

  
Diane lets out a shaky breath and reaches for the door.

_Oh my love, if I could just find you tonight._  
_If I could just find you tonight… oh, my love._

  
She had expected the nightmares to come sooner. She knew that they would, sleep pills had become near useless, and she hated the bitter taste that it left on her tongue.

  
Yet the first night that she awakens under a sheen of sweat, heart-crushing inwards as if a great weight had dropped upon her chest, each rib breaking, each breath more excruciating than the last — she weeps. Diane weeps and screams until her throat is dry, and it hurts just to take in air. She fists the sheets and lets out a terrible choking sob, and it feels as if someone cut her open, raw and stinging, everything is pouring out.

The bed beside her is empty.

  
The room is blue.

  
She grasps the pillow beside her and silences her screams.

  
The night goes on.


End file.
